


Before Destruction

by Jalapeno_Helen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s07e06 Slash Fiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalapeno_Helen/pseuds/Jalapeno_Helen
Summary: There are rules to being a winner, and Dick has followed all of them... except one.
Kudos: 5





	Before Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 7.06 Slash Fiction.

Dick Roman is a winner.

The key to being a winner is never settling for less than _exactly_ what you want. He wanted a handsome vessel for himself, so he found the original Dick Roman; he wanted wealth beyond Roman’s current accounts, so he invested; he wanted to be the leader of his kind, so he developed a foolproof plan that will net them an endless food supply within the year.

At this point, there’s no reason to be modest. The Leviathan have already won.

The one thing he doesn’t expect is the power _demons_ have on Earth. There are wards against them; books written about them; hunters trained to kill them, and that sort of singular, devoted attention tells Dick that demons have a stronger hold here than he’d assumed. The more he considers it, the more Dick believes the Leviathan could use demons’ aide—and, naturally, once human rebellion is no longer a concern, there will be nothing to prevent Leviathan from killing off Crowley’s subjects as well. 

But one step at a time. Moderation in all things.

He has his assistant gather the ingredients for a summoning. Dick wears one of his best suits to the ceremony, and has an array of gifts waiting nearby, including a bottle of Craig. Susan competently completes the ritual, ending it with a punch of smoke; Dick wrinkles his nose, but between one blink and the next, Crowley is standing within the circle.

“Crowley,” Dick cheerfully greets him. He waves Susan away; she nods, collects her things, and strides through the door without a word.

“Dick,” Crowley acknowledges. “Of all the offices, in all the cities, in all the world, I’m summoned to yours.”

Dick dislikes both Crowley’s tone and the fact he is clearly referencing something Dick doesn’t understand, but he smiles regardless. You can catch more flies with sugar than you can with vinegar—an apt maxim, considering Crowley’s insectile significance.

“Can I interest you in a drink? I understand you’re a Craig man.” Dick holds up the bottle. 

Crowley’s words are overly-sweet when he answers, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were deep into the bottle already. Only drunkards would have the stones to bother me like this.”

Bother. _Bother._ Dick feels his smile tighten, but patience is a virtue, and it has gotten him this far. He refuses to let one brief conversation with a piece of putrid, repugnant slime shake him up.

“I’m just trying to make a gesture of goodwill,” Dick assures him, patting his own chest when he adds, “If scotch isn’t to your taste, I believe the soul of Mr. Roman is still floating around in here. It’s yours, if you’re so inclined.”

Crowley sneers. “I don’t accept sloppy leftovers.”

Dick runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth. He isn’t yet well acquainted with such disregard of his good graces, but sacrifice—of his fortitude, time, resources—must be made to gain ground. Winners sacrifice, and Dick Roman is a winner.

“Fair enough,” Dick obliges. He uses a friendly, firm tone to indicate that he is done offering niceties, and allows his perpetual smile to stretch farther across his face. “I understand you’re busy, as am I. Let me be blunt: you caught me on a bad day. We all have them. Your offer to join me was generous.”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “And as I recall, you rejected it. Liberally.”

Behind Dick’s smile are rows of teeth gnashing at the bit. When the humans have been tamed, Crowley will be the first demon Dick devours. _Slowly._

“As I said, it was a bad day for everyone,” Dick reiterates. His smile literally hurts. “What can I do to reopen negotiations? My understanding is the Winchesters have been a thorn in your side for years. I can have my people take care of them for you. As a matter of fact, I’ve already had one of their associates dealt with.”

He expects Crowley to revel at this admission. He and Crowley may be sewn of different cloth, but surely they can agree that Sam and Dean Winchester, along with their grouchy old friend, need to be swept off the board. 

“I heard you put a bullet in Bobby Singer’s head,” Crowley states, like it’s old news. “Tell me, do the Winchesters know it was you?”

Dick bristles with pride. He still remembers Dean’s impassioned and foolish speech at the hospital, where he dared to approach Dick rather than the other way around. He will be dealt with in due time.

“Oh, certainly. The older one went so far as to swear retribution,” Dick replies, punctuating his statement with a small laugh. Perhaps he will gain Crowley’s favor by allowing him to share the joke. Demons, paltry as they are, _do_ rank above humans in the power chain. That is a commonality he and Crowley can share. For now.

“I see,” Crowley says, after a moment of silence, but there is a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice. Dick doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the way Crowley is withdrawing, as though he plans to reject Dick’s offer to join the Leviathan ranks.

“Do you?” Dick snaps, before quickly reeling in his temper. Winners are patient; if he must invest _additional_ time into this partnership, then so be it. “Would you care for a seat? Our business might be better discussed if we were more comfortable.”

Crowley returns Dick’s pleasant expression with one of his own, and Dick thinks, momentarily, that his sorely-tested restraint has paid off.

“If you think,” Crowley says, “that I am suicidal enough to partner with such a short-sighted, naive prick, then you really must be new here. Allow me to give you the nickel tour.” He theatrically throws out his arms. “Welcome to Earth, home of three impotent horsemen, two caged archangels, an averted apocalypse, and roughly seven billion humans whose biological imperative is to survive. You think humanity is going to line up at your say so? Tell me, what’s your timeline? A year, maybe two, before the whole world prostrates itself on your dinner plate?”

Dick physically bites his human tongue hard enough to bleed.

“You've no clue how the game is played,” Crowley goes on, “no care about the rules. You think things will be in the bloody bag, so full of yourself that you _broadcast Bobby Singer’s murder_.”

“He was a human, and he was in my way,” Dick roars in return. A blazing rage takes over, obscuring his goals, long term and short. His careful, contrived composure tears at the seams. He will not be taken to task by a cockroach who lives only by Dick’s good graces. “I removed him from the picture. You would have done the same.”

Crowley shakes his head, disbelieving, and then has the gall to laugh in Dick’s face. Dick calmly decides that Crowley will not leave here in one piece; he will be consumed, utterly, agonizingly, for such blatant scorn of Dick’s benevolence.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s _embarrassing_ how wrong you are, so let me spell it out: Hell's game board was once heavily populated. Demons at the top of the totem were walking this planet, and now they are all dead. Angels, dead. Gods, dead.” Crowley’s voice, momentous from before, lowers until it is practically a murmur. “Dean and Sam Winchester are out for blood— _your_ blood—and that means it’s over for you, mate. I don’t throw my chips in with losers.”

 _Loser_.

Dick sees red, even as he thinks _no, I am a winner._ The key to being a winner is never settling for less than _exactly_ what you want; Dick wants the world, and _he will have it_ , no matter Crowley’s trivial threats and insults.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. You know the old adage.” Dick grins, revealing lines and lines of shark-sharp teeth just itching to rip something apart. “This is a one-time offer, Crowley. I won’t ask again. You and I could have humanity on their knees.”

“Game rule number one: _humanity doesn’t bow_ ,” Crowley spits. “If I’d known Leviathan were this stupid, I would have left your rotting hides in Purgatory.”

It’s the final straw. Dick’s teeth emerge, his mouth salivating as he roars and strikes in Crowley’s direction—but the space is empty, and all Dick catches is a lingering scent of sulfur from where Crowley had stood. In his anger, Dick had inadvertently disturbed the summoning circle with his foot; he quickly retracts himself, disgusted that a _demon_ had provoked such a base reaction. He breathes deep. Dick’s blood sings to destroy something. His assistant, perhaps, when she returns. Surely he can find another with her qualifications. Leviathan are many, and there are more where Susan came from.

He moves to the window, where his infuriated expression stares back. Dick takes another breath and tries to smile. He’s a winner; winners always smile, even when things aren’t going their way. The tides will turn and Crowley will see his error in judgement, but by then it will be too late to make amends.

Winners anticipate success. Winners don’t heed foolish counsel. Winners don’t give weight to naysayers—or, in this case, Crowley’s predictions of failure. Perhaps demons have been on this planet much longer than Leviathan, but what of it? Leviathan are stronger, smarter, more loyal, and infinitely better organized, while Crowley's kind are little more than appetizers to the main course of humanity. This is a no-lose scenario.

Winners make allies.

This is Dick’s single failing, but is that so significant in the big picture? Humans will indeed surrender when they realize the futility of fighting, and demons will do the same. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, Zacharia, the horsemen, the array of predestined events the Winchesters managed to shrug off—those are not his concern. That is the past, involving beings who clearly did not plan the way Dick does, who were too proud and careless to anticipate every possible outcome. It makes no difference that Crowley had accused him of the same— _you think things will be in the bloody bag, so full of yourself_ —because Dick is a winner. If anything, getting rid of Bobby Singer was a proactive undertaking, and _all_ winners are proactive.

_Demons at the top of the totem were walking this planet, and now they are all dead._

Bobby Singer meant little in the grand scheme of things.

_Angels, dead._

The demise of one man is not enough to send Dick’s plans toppling.

_Gods, dead._

Dick Roman looks out towards the city. For the first time since crossing the threshold, he is unsettled.

FIN.

_Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall._  
-Proverbs 16:18


End file.
